


Kobayashi Maru

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Choking/Breathplay, Competence Kink, Crack Treated Seriously, Flirting, Initiation Rituals, M/M, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Jardani Jovonovich has one week to perform an Impossible Task.
Relationships: John Wick/Winston
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to the wonderful flowerdeluce, thanks for all your encouragement, even though I had to let this one go for a while.
> 
> This is mostly complete, and will be updated daily to reflect a week in real time. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Jardani Jovonovich stood outside the office of the Director, which adjoined the box office of the Tarkovsky Theatre. He was dressed in his best clothes (pleated trousers, a recently ironed shirt and jacket, black socks and newly shined shoes with the laces neatly tied). He carried a bag, which contained all of his worldly belongings. Above his right ankle was a knife. Since Jardani slightly favored his left hand, there was a corresponding holster with a pistol inside his jacket. 

Today, his life would start. 

“Come in, Jardani,” the Director called before he could raise a hand to knock. Jardani stepped inside her office, a strange marvel of contemporariness at odds with the rest of the Theatre. “Have you done everything I’ve asked?” 

“I think so.” 

“Sit down.” The Director gestured to the chair opposite her desk. It didn’t look comfortable but Jardani obeyed, dropping his bag down beside him. Not wasting any time, she said, “Are you familiar with the impossible?” 

Jardani had to think for a minute. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean the concept of the impossible, Jardani. The idea.” To illustrate, the Director tapped the side of her skull. 

Jardani had been at the Tarkovsky Theatre for as long as he could remember. He remembered other things too sometimes, but only when he slept. During his time here, the Theatre had impressed upon him many ideas. Some of the ideas even left marks on his body and he remembered keenly, that most of them were unkind. The idea of the impossible came up now and then, but never in full view. 

“I’m familiar enough with it. Doing what can’t be done.” Jardani shrugged loosely. That was something else that the Theatre had taught him. Things were done because they needed doing. The impossible didn’t come into it. The impossible wasted time. 

The Director leaned forward on her elbows and pinned Jardani to his chair. Then she leaned back again and continued, as if nothing had happened, “Marcus has come by to visit you a lot, hasn’t he? Has he mentioned to you the Impossible Task?” 

Jardani picked uncomfortably at the edge of his sleeve. Marcus was the one who had brought by the clothes that he was wearing now, insisting that anyone who was to step inside the New York Continental Hotel should dress to impress its proprietor. “He’s mentioned it once. But Marcus also said that the rules forbid him to talk to me about it, at least, until I get to the hotel.” 

This seemed to please the Director, for some reason. “And he’d be right. Where the Tarkovsky Theatre has taught you the practicalities of doing, the Continental shall teach you the rules, and the elegance behind them.” 

“What if I fail the Impossible Task?” Jardani asked. It seemed to him a worthwhile question. 

“Then you learn the possibility of failure,” she said, seeming pleased that he’d thought to ask. “That too, is a lesson.” 

“Will the New York Continental forsake me if I were to fail?” 

“That’s up to the Manager.” The Director tried to smile at him in a motherly way. “But you are dressed very nicely. He likes that sort of thing.” 

*

Outside on the steps of the Tarkovsky Theatre, John met Marcus. Marcus, who’d come up in the Theatre under the care of a different Director a little less than a decade ago before Jardani. But now he was a man of the new world with old secrets. He looked Jardani up and down and looked like he wanted to laugh. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Marcus said, waving Jardani over to the car parked at the curb. “I’m just always surprised when ruffians clean up nice.” 

Jardani figured that Marcus was probably insulting him, and let it go. He slid into the car and buckled himself in. He looked back at the Theatre and wondered if he would miss it. 

Marcus seemed to notice him looking and settled a hand on top of Jardani’s head. “Trust me, you won’t miss it. With any luck, you’ll never see this place again.” 

*

Before they stepped into the New York Continental, Marcus smoothed his thumb over Jardani’s collar. “Trust me, I’m the one that really gets it if you don’t look right.” 

“And how do I look?” Jardani asked. 

“Primped, primed, and ready,” Marcus said, and Jardani couldn’t tell if it was a joke. “Come on, let’s go.” 

They stepped through the threshold of the New York Continental Hotel and Jardani tried not to gawk. This place was as grand as the halls of the Tarkovsky Theatre, except its history was worn lightly on its sleeve. It welcomed the world outside of it instead of shunning it for the dark. Jardani counted no less than eight pairs of eyes on him as he approached the front desk. 

A woman smiled at him, or tried to. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t severe or weathered. She looked like she’d been here for some time. “Welcome to the Continental.” 

Marcus pushed two gold coins across the smooth wooden counter. “He’s here for the Impossible Task.” 

“I see,” said the woman. “The Manager isn’t in, but we can get you settled and acclimated.” When she looked at Marcus, her expression turned severe. “I trust you haven’t helped him cheat.” 

“It’s cheating now,” said Marcus, in the tone of someone who was tired of the same argument coming up again and again. “It wasn’t, then. Anyway, I’ll see you, Jardani, I need a drink. Come find me later.” 

*

“My name is Styx,” said the woman. “I serve as the Continental’s concierge and between Marcus and myself, we’re responsible for you for the duration of the Impossible Task. Here is your room, Mr. Jovonovich, I hope you will find it to your liking.” 

Back at the Theatre, Jardani slept in a small cot with about eight or ten others in a small crowded room. Ever since his growth spurt some years ago, his bed hadn’t fit him. Privacy was hard won and cherished, and during some days, it’d seemed impossible to come by. 

The room that Styx led him into was spacious, with a high ceiling, clean glass windows showing a busy view of New York down below. More immediately relevant to Jardani, there was a minibar filled with various drinks, most of which were foreign to him. 

Jardani was uncertain. “Can I…?” 

“You’re a guest of this hotel,” Styx said. “You can do anything you’d like. Within reason. Why don’t you set down your things, get something to drink, make yourself comfortable. Then we can talk.” 

Jardani helped himself to three cans from the minibar since he couldn’t decide, and sat down at the edge of the mattress. 

“The Continental is meant to be a place of respite for guests.” Styx sat in a chair opposite the bed. “Which means that there is one cardinal rule: you cannot kill anyone on Continental grounds. The rule is the same here in New York, as it is in London, Toronto, Shanghai, wherever fate might take you. If you were to conduct business in such a manner, you will be punished, swiftly and severely. You will be stripped of all protection once offered to you, and in most cases, left for dead. Do you understand?” 

Jardani nodded. It was easy enough to understand and something both the Director and Marcus had mentioned before. 

“The Impossible Task is this: you must kill the Manager of this hotel during your stay here. You have until Sunday evening.” 

“But the rules state that,” Jardani shook himself and sat up straighter on the mattress. “I can’t.” 

Styx stood. “And so the task was given its name.” 

“Can I ask a question?” Jardani asked, and then decided to be more precise, “I mean, some questions.” 

She paused with her hand on the door handle. “You may, but I can’t promise I’ll answer.” 

“Am I allowed to carry a weapon around?” 

“Yes. But if you use them against the Manager or anyone, that’s against the rules.” 

“Can I ask for help?” 

“You could,” Styx said. “But anyone who helps you would be subject to the same punishment. Even if you were to succeed, the Task would be declared null and void and therefore incomplete.” 

“But Marcus cheated. And he’s still here,” Jardani pointed out.

“Whether or not Marcus cheated is -” Styx’s mouth twisted unhappily, “ - still a matter of some debate.” 

“You either cheat or you don’t,” Jardani said. “It’s not that hard.” 

This time, Styx did not reply. She suddenly seemed in a hurry to leave as she got up from her chair. “Any other questions, Mr. Jovonovich?” 

Jardani thought for a moment. “Can I tell him what I’m here to do? The Manager, I mean.” 

“If you wish to.” Styx opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. “But know if you fail, then the Manager has a long memory.” 

*

Jardani went down to the dining room and had lunch with Marcus and a man named Harry. Both men looked like they’d been drinking and Marcus said, “So. She read you the riot act?” 

“I’m getting the feeling Styx doesn’t like you very much.” Jardani held his gaze until Marcus twitched and looked away. “Did you cheat?” 

“I’m not allowed to talk about that for the duration of the Task.” Marcus shoved a glass full of beer at him. “Here, drink. Relax.” 

“Also, the rules are unfair,” Jardani said and Harry laughed so hard that beer nearly came out of his nose. “I have until Sunday, and my Task starts _today_. The Manager isn’t even in.” 

“You have a point,” Marcus said, nodding like Jardani had said something very wise. Marcus then shot Harry a look, as if the other man's laughter was wholly unprecedented. 

“Rules aren’t fair, Jardani,” said Harry after he’d recovered. “Rules are only there to remind you who’s boss. And most importantly, that the boss isn’t you.”


	2. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly I'm on that timeline where every day is 48 hours long. That's probably a more realistic timeline given where I am in life. Cheers for sticking with me!

The phone beside Jardani’s bed rang and rang. 

He groaned, the sound thick with sleep and rolled over to hang up the phone. It was blissfully silent for about a minute, and then the phone rang again. 

Jardani reached for it and took a deep breath. He said, “What?” 

“Hello, Mr. Jovonovich. This is the Front Desk. I trust you slept well?”

Jardani said, “I was sleeping well.” 

Styx acted as if he hadn’t spoken and continued, “The Manager wonders if you’d like to join him for breakfast, in the penthouse suite.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Half past seven,” said Styx. “If you have any allergies I can alert the kitchen.” 

At the Tarkovsky Theatre, days started just as early, and yet there was an inordinate amount of sleep still stuck in Jardani’s eyes and also elsewhere on his body. It was probably because he liked this bed, could stretch out in it, listen around the room and hear nothing but his own breathing. He closed his eyes and then opened them once more. 

“I’ll get dressed. I don’t think I have any allergies.” 

“Very good, I’ll tell him to expect you.” 

*

Styx adjusted Jardani’s collar before she herded him into a private elevator manned by a lobby boy in an impeccable black suit. All the way up to the top floor, the lobby boy and Jardani shared a companionable silence. 

“Good luck in there, Mr. Jovonovich,” said the lobby boy when Jardani stepped out. He had an accent that reminded Jardani of someone singing and the severe lights in the elevator glinted off the top of his dark bald head. 

“For what?” 

The elevator closed and Jardani headed down the hall to the only door. He knocked, and a moment later, the door opened revealing an older man who was only wearing a dressing gown. The material looked so expensive that Jardani could feel wrinkles practically growing on his collar. He itched there, and fought the urge to scratch. 

“Ah, you must be -” 

“Jardani Jovonovich, Mr. Manager.” 

The Manager opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I apologize; I’m terrible with names. Do you mind if I call you something else?” 

“Is that allowed?” Jardani said before he could stop himself. 

The Manager looked at him. “Why on earth wouldn’t it be?” 

Jardani shrugged. “The Director says that the hotel will teach me about rules. There are a lot of rules here.” 

“I was where you were, once.” The Manager opened the door wider and gestured. “Why don’t you come in? It looks like we do have a lot to talk about. I usually take my breakfast out on the balcony, if the weather permits. It looks like a nice day.” 

Jardani knew rain well enough, but the sun and a clear sky was more or less still a startling concept for him. He followed the man out to his balcony where there was a table for two already set for a meal. He squinted into the sun, and then looked away. 

“Please, sit,” said the Manager. 

Jardani did and adjusted his chair. He waited; he was not particularly good at waiting, but the Theatre had taught him a version of patience.

“There are a lot of rules here,” the other man agreed affably. “But doing what we do, it’s better safe than sorry. Perhaps you’ll come to learn this in time, that some rules can be broken and some can’t be.” 

“Styx at the Front Desk says I shouldn’t break any rules.” 

“It’s her job to tell you that. I’d be cross if she told you otherwise.” The Manager smiled at him. “But now I’m telling you different.” 

Jardani remembered what Harry said. “Because you’re the boss?” 

“Because I’m the proprietor of this hotel.” The Manager corrected him and reached for one of the silver pots. “Do you fancy coffee or tea?” 

“Which is better?” Jardani looked between the two. 

“I can’t tell you that.” 

“But you can tell me which one you like,” Jardani said. “Can’t you?” 

“I could.” The Manager poured himself a cup. “This is tea. English Breakfast. I have it with a dash of milk but no sugar. Would you like some?” 

“Please and thank you.” Jardani remembered his manners; the Theatre didn’t exactly teach him manners in the usual way, but Jardani knew enough about manners to keep out of trouble. The Manager poured Jardani a cup of tea, the brown red liquid settled against the white porcelain and Jardani could almost see his own reflection. He nearly didn’t recognize himself. The tea was bitter, and then sweet when he swallowed. 

“Now, where were we?” 

“You said you weren’t so good with names.” 

“I did say that.” The Manager nodded. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. Do you mind if I call you something else?” 

“Like what?” 

“I’ll have to think,” the man said. “A name ought to be memorable. Your calling card. If you want to go far in this world, people should hear the sound of your name, and run for the hills.” 

Jardani Jovonovich turned his own name over in his head several times and concluded that he probably needed a better one. Of course he knew the names of some of the other boys at the Theatre, but he had to think before he could recall any of them. “What’s your name?” 

“My name is Winston.” 

“Can I call you Winston?” 

The Manager nodded. “If you’d like.” 

The Director didn’t have a name. Or, if she did, Jardani didn’t know it. It also stood to reason that she didn’t need one. She was the Director; she ran a Theatre; she gave direction to, and shaped and twisted young lives, and such was her existence. Winston’s being the proprietor of the New York Continental was different from that. His world was much bigger and he had use for a name to keep afloat in it. Jardani could tell that already. 

Winston had either lost interest in the conversation or maybe he was still thinking. He was spreading some butter on a thick slice of bread and the serrated edge of the knife scraped loudly against the crispy side and just for a moment, Jardani imagined taking the knife and plunging it into Winston’s throat.

And then he remembered it was against the rules.

“Are you afraid of me, Winston?” 

Winston put down the knife and bit into his slice of bread. Then he drank some tea. “Should I be?” 

“I’m here to perform the Impossible Task so I may be properly received into the protection of the Continental,” Jardani said. “If I succeed, you’d be dead.” 

Winston didn’t even flinch. He said, “If you break any of the Continental’s rules, you’d be dead too. There are contingencies in place to make the last hours of your life very painful.” 

“I don’t mind pain.” Jardani told the truth as he mirrored Winston’s gesture. He was careful to hold his little finger at an angle, away from the handle of his teacup. “I’m practiced in it.” 

“You should eat something before it all gets cold,” said Winston. 

Jardani helped himself to some food. Some of it was cold, but all of it tasted good. Though maybe it was because he didn’t have much to compare it to. The Theatre didn’t exactly believe in promoting gluttony through sustenance, so Jardani ate not to be hungry and thought very little about what he actually ate. Outside, it was not much better. Every once in a while, he’d been permitted to leave the Theatre under Marcus’s increasingly lackluster supervision. Once, they went for less than stellar Chinese takeout; another time, they ended up in a rooftop somewhere and Jardani had to go and raid a nearby bodega for supplies. 

This was better than any of that, and it was only breakfast. 

“John Wick,” said Winston, and Jardani looked up at him again. He swallowed. 

“Who?” 

“You, do you mind the name?” Winston answered his question with one of his own. “I shall keep on thinking of one, if you fancy something else.” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

“Are you always this full of questions?” 

Jardani peered hard across the table for any sign that Winston was annoyed. Mostly, he thought the older man looked amused. Finally, Jardani settled on telling the truth. “I like knowing things.” 

This was apparently the right thing to have said, because Jardani spied a ghost of a smile playing at the edge of Winston’s lips before it disappeared behind his teacup again. “Good answer. It shows you think. Off the back of this answer, John Wick, you have a choice.” 

Jardani said, “I don’t mind it. I’ll probably grow into it, grow to like it.” 

Right answer again. Winston’s smile took on an almost wolfish “Provided you do something for me first. Any worthwhile name ought to be earned.” 

“Okay.” 

“Have you thought about it?” Winston poured himself more tea. 

“About how to kill you by Sunday?” Jardani asked. “I mean, I. Sort of?” In truth, it was the only thing on his mind, but it seemed rude to admit that to Winston, the Manager. Winston seemed good-humored enough about it, but it still seemed in bad taste to tell a man how he 

“Tell me.” 

Jardani, trying to slide himself the best he could into the name _John Wick,_ had to collect his thoughts. The Theatre had trained his instincts. If he wanted someone dead, that someone was simply dead. The barest of thoughts went into his actions, simply because there was no time. So Jardani - John - attempted to buy himself some more time. John looked at Winston and found the older man impossible to read. 

John asked, “Is that something you ask everyone?” 

“I’ve been the Manager for some time. Some might even say, a long time,” said Winston. “I need to find some way to make my own fun.” 

“And yet you’re still here.” 

“I am.” Winston nodded, leaning back into his chair. “It’ll be a decade soon. Might be some kind of record.” 

“Did Marcus and Harry try to kill you, too?” 

“There’s an operative word in there somewhere,” Winston agreed. “But yes, essentially. Out of all the performances, theirs still stand out. But you’re not allowed to ask them for specific advice.” 

“Yeah, they keep telling me that.” 

John stood, pushing back his chair, and apparently the motion was sudden enough to catch Winston’s full attention. He was aware of the other man’s gaze on him as he removed his gun and knife from their respective holsters and laid them out on the table. 

“Is that all you’re carrying?” 

John couldn’t figure out if the question was a trick. He played it safe and told the truth. “I don’t like to be weighed down, besides, I trust my hands.” His hands were clean, but his knuckles were bruised and still healing from a recent exercise from the Theatre. He made his way across to where Winston was sitting and noted the silken scarf still knotted around his throat. John pressed his thumb very delicately against the soft material and noted that Winston had pretty much stopped moving. 

“May I?” 

“You may. Actually, let me finish my tea.” 

John stayed still too, as Winston lifted his his cup to his lips and drank. John waited until he put the cup down before undoing the loose knot of the scarf. He put the scarf on the table and fit his hand around Winston’s throat. He felt the man inhale sharply and squeezed, although he was mindful of the rules and tried not to squeeze too hard. 

“I’d hold you in my hands, Winston, and made sure every iota of life leaves your body. That way I can make sure I complete the task. And you’d know it was me.” 

There was a strain in Winston’s voice, but color had not yet begun to rush to his face. “Maybe you’ll need both hands, John.” 

John considered this and assented with a little shrug. He said, “When the time comes, maybe I will.” 

There was a very telling click of a gun’s safety being uncocked, and John found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun, held by the lobby boy from before. 

“Step away from the Manager, Mr. Jovonovich. Or I will open fire, and you’ll fall fifteen storeys to certain death.” 

John loosened his grip and felt Winston exhale. There was the lightest touch to his wrist, as the man did the rest in breaking free from him. John balled his hands together, and then remembered that there was still a gun trained on him. He held up his hands. 

“Charon, enough. Put down the gun.” 

The lobby boy, Charon hesitated, but then did what he was told. 

“Mr. Wick knows our rules, and will endeavor not to break them. Attempt his very best. Isn’t that right, Jonathan?”

John closed his eyes and slotted Jonathan next to Jardani behind his ribcage, where it would stay, for a long long while. “Yes, Mr. Manager.” 

Charon’s eyes flicked between them. “See that you don’t. Come, Mr. Wick, I will escort you downstairs.”


End file.
